


Recreational Gun Use

by Dandy



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Gunplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25037764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dandy/pseuds/Dandy
Summary: “Is this the one you were going to use?”“Was it the one I was going to use for what?”“For killing me.”
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 77





	Recreational Gun Use

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pinkgrasshopper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkgrasshopper/gifts).



> A birthday gift for Pinkgrasshopper, who requested that Akira suck on Akechi's gun, and then his other gun.
> 
> We're all adults here but I'm still going to say it: don't recreate anything depicted in this fic. No one here is following proper gun safety.

“Is this the one you were going to use?”

Akechi doesn’t even look up from his computer, though his fingers pause momentarily, mid-sentence. “Was it the one I was going to use for what?”

“For killing me.”

That gets Akechi to turn around, to see Akira standing in the middle of his tiny apartment living room, holding a revolver in his hands like it’s a duster, or a spatula, or some other common household tool and not a deadly and illegal weapon. At least he has the sense to point it somewhere other than Akechi.

Akechi doesn’t even know how he found it, but then, he should have never underestimated Akira’s ability to scope out hidden treasures. With all the time they spend together these days, he should have known he’d find it eventually.

“...No,” he says, as he deliberately turns back around to his computer, hoping to put the subject to bed. “I… was going to steal one from the guard.”

Was _going_ to, because the gun he did steal that night wasn’t real, and it wasn’t really Akira’s blood and brains splattered all over the interrogation room-

“Did you ever use this one?”

“For nothing more than target practice.” Shido had given it to him, way back when they first started “working together,” but… “I preferred more elegant methods. You know that.” Akechi takes a deep breath. “I just haven’t found a good time to get rid of it.”

Why are they talking about this, anyway? They never talk about it - it’s the past, it can’t be changed, and now they move forward from it.

Unless this is the day that Akira finally realizes he doesn’t want to move on, and he leaves Akechi behind for good-

“It looks like _my_ gun.”

That _toy_? Akechi can’t bite back his scoff - Iwai’s models are good, certainly, but for someone who’s held a real gun in their hands, the difference in the weight and the sheen become obvious on inspection. Akira is a fool to think they’re anything alike.

He’s opening his mouth to say that when Akira adds, “There’s something I always wanted to do with my gun… in the Metaverse… but there were always people around…”

He says it in that quiet way he says most things, low and languid, but there’s an edge to his voice, embarrassed, but also raw and rough and suddenly it occurs to Akechi that they’re having a very different conversation than he first thought.

He spins back around just in time to catch Akira press the barrel of the gun to his face and slowly drag it down his skin, his eyelids fluttering closed so his long lashes kiss his cheeks, and Akechi feels a rush of heat in his groin.

This is a very, _very_ different conversation.

“...What did you want to do?” he finally asks, his lips turning up in a feral smile. “Tell me, and maybe I can help.” He gets up, and comes close to Akira, close enough that he can see the way Akira shivers lightly as he presses the gun’s metal closer.

“Take it,” says Akira softly, opening his eyes to look right into Akechi’s. “Take it and tell me what to do.”

Akechi’s grin grows wider, and he reaches up, grabbing not the gun but Akira’s stupid glasses. They’re tossed aside carelessly, but Akira doesn’t protest, only gasps in a needy way when he takes the gun next, and presses the barrel to Akira’s chest.

“To the bedroom, then,” he says, voice pleasant to hide his own growing excitement. Akira turns and heads obediently for Akechi’s tiny bedroom, the gun pressed between his shoulder blades all the while.

“Clothes off,” whispers Akechi into Akira’s ear, delighting in his shivers. He strips, like a good boy, and turns to face Akechi, who presses the barrel into his chest now, between his pecs.

“On the bed.”

Obediently, Akira flops back onto the mattress. Akechi strips himself now, languidly pointing the gun towards Akira now and again, before crawling onto the mattress after him, straddling his hips.

Akira is already mostly hard, and Akechi thinks he knows how to get him all the way there.

Slowly, he presses the barrel of the gun to Akira’s chest once again, then slowly drags it down the length of his body, pausing to trace indescribable patterns over his stomach. Akira groans, low in his throat, and reaches out a hand to urge Akechi lower.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Akechi teases, pulling the gun away and waving it back and forth like one might wag their finger. “Don’t get too hasty now. I’m the one with the gun, after all.”

He waits for Akira to settle down again, then gets to drawing the gun along his skin once more. He starts high, tracing the line of Akira’s broad shoulders and down one arm, then the other, in slow strokes. Then he takes it down once again, past his belly this time, and all the way past his hips.

Then he presses the gun against Akira’s now fully erect dick, watches as he shivers and shakes under the touch. He’s beautiful like this, completely under Akechi’s control. And trusting him, even with the weapon Akechi once might have used to kill him flush against his skin.

Akechi sighs in satisfaction, drawing the gun along Akira’s legs now, letting out a laugh when he presses the cold metal to the soles of his feet and Akira curls his toes in response. He could torture his boyfriend all day like this, but he has other goals in mind for now.

“You said there was something you always wanted to do.” Akechi presses the handle of the gun now into Akira’s hand, allowing him to take it away, at once surprised and not at all surprised at how easy it is to do so. “Show me.”

Akira locks eyes with him for a moment, then sits up. For a moment all is still, the two of them just breathing and staring at each other, and then Akira reaches out and flips Akechi onto the bed so he’s top now, straddling his hips. He points the gun at Akechi, and Akechi finds that the immediate instinct to fight him off is easy enough to contain.

The gun is only pointed at him for a moment, though, and the Akira raises it in front of his own face.

And then he slides the barrel into his own mouth, and sucks on it. And then moans, like he’s just tasted something truly heavenly.

And, well, damn. The sight is nearly enough to drive Akechi mad.

Akira moves his mouth on the gun the way he’s moved it on Akechi’s dick, so many times before now. He moves it up and down, lavishing the gun with his tongue and with his lips, giving every inch of the metallic surface his attention. Sometimes he takes his mouth off, and kisses and licks the gun, and Akechi watches with fascination the way his saliva beads off the surface, the way his tongue conforms to his uneven edges.

He can’t help but reach out and stroke his own dick, in time with Akira’s ministrations to the gun. Squeezing any time he takes the barrel deep in his mouth and sucks. Teasing with his fingers each time he kisses.

He does this for so long Akechi can’t keep track, until he’s nearly senseless with need. The dizzying fear that it could all go wrong at any moment mixes with the erotic image of the gun in his mouth, and Akechi knows he can’t last like this much longer.

“Akira…” he finally gasps out, reaching for him, and Akira smiles wickedly, his lips curling around the barrel in a way Akechi has seen so many times before, but usually only under a white masquerade mask. Akechi realizes, with a startled laugh, that he was never the one in control here - not for a single instant.

And it might have made him crazy before, but now… now he can only feel content. Or he _will_ , if Akira ever stops playing with that gun and starts playing with _him_.

But he doesn’t have to say anything - Akira is already on the move. He sets the gun aside - easily, gingerly - and slides himself further down the bed with more grace than strictly necessary. And then he bends over Akechi, and kisses his own head now, and then sucks.

He lavishes Akechi with as much care and attention as he gave the gun, and Akechi has to grip the sheets and gasp for air, his head leaning back so far he can see the wall behind him. He wants Akira to go faster, before the fire in his blood consumes him. He wants Akira to never stop, and stay in this ecstasy forever.

But he feels heat pool in his groin and he knows the choice is out of both their hands. “Akira,” he says, screams, sighs, and Akira looks up and catches his eye and smiles, because it’s all okay, he has him, Akechi is safe.

He comes in Akira’s mouth and Akira swallows it all like he hasn’t eaten in days.

He rolls off Akechi and sits hunched over on the bed next to him, still achingly hard but not touching himself. The sheets are warm and comfortable and it’s tempting to fall asleep, but that would be selfish of him, and Akechi is working hard, lately, to overcome that selfishness.

So he sits up, himself, and takes the gun again where Akira laid it on the edge of the bed, and turns and presses the metal into Akira’s chest until he lies down. 

He traces his body with the gun again, the way he did earlier, and watches with satisfaction as Akira’s mouth falls open in a soft, oh, and he whispers, “Goro, please,” and reaches for his hand.

Akechi lets him guide his hand to his cock and starts to touch it in quick but thorough strokes. The gun in his other hand continues its meandering journey around his skin, lower and lower now, as he drives Akira to the brink, then lets off, again and again, until Akira is whispering nothing but his name and pleas for release over and over in a jumbled mess.

Just for a moment, Akechi silences him by bringing the barrel to his lips, and watching as Akira obediently wraps his mouth around it. He gives Akira one swift tug, and he’s finished, and Akechi doesn’t even mind as it spills over his hand and onto Akira’s stomach and thighs - he’s too busy staring at where his pink, swollen lips rest around the metal.

For a moment they’re both silent, and Akechi realizes he’s panting. The dizzying realization of what he’s doing, and what is in Akira’s mouth, sweeps over him, and he pulls the gun away with an oddly satisfying pop. He rolls away from Akira and gets off the side of the bed, to the tiny dresser that is the only other furniture in the room. And, curious, he opens the chamber of the gun.

“...This thing is loaded. Idiot.”

Akira has the audacity to laugh. “You wouldn’t have shot me.”

“You could have shot yourself.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Akechi rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the smile on his face. To keep from Akira seeing before he can get it under control, he stays turned toward the dresser, shaking the bullets out onto the wood with soft thuds.

Then, after a moment’s consideration, he slips the gun into a drawer of his dresser, hidden under some underwear and undershirts.

He doesn’t need the bullets, but he might want the gun again.

Purely for recreation, of course.


End file.
